//doodles of my OC Rasekš//
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//doodles of my OC Rasekš//

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Big Dock Energy
The city of gold was dripping in it. A blinding mid-day sun bleached and warmed the stones that made up Dazar'alor's dockyard, stretching out into an emerald sea that did nothing to break the heat. Golden lizards baked on filigreed steps, eyeing the cool of the shade and fountains lined with the faces of the Loa that stood out of the way of the ziggurat steps.
Rasek sat with his back to them, the sweat and salt mixing with his clothes to form a second, comfortable skin. His feet were black with dust and dirt, and the bottle of Mojo'ito in his hand had long since gone warm. A cigarette dangled precariously from his lips. He kept one eye nearly closed to keep out the smoke.
If there was ever a day to die in peace, this was it.
Two Dudes Into Darkshore
It was hot, and the salt air from the sea carried the stench of smoke and death down the length of Darkshore. The long familiar quiet of cats and sentinels was forced aside by the sound of the encroaching Horde, armed to the teeth with the siege engines created several years before, veterans from conflicts the world over, and if the rumor was true, the Banshee queen herself.
They'd hit it quick and they'd hit it hard, with most of the elven troops further south, and the biggest threat deeply rooted in the land itself. So far, everything was going well. Tales of heroism and victory would be told in every tavern across Horde-controlled Kalimdor in the months to come, but not all who travelled with the vanguard were heroes.

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Rasekās Dad Dies
The sky over Revantusk was clear. It was unusually still in the morning; the sea at the edge of the village was like a looking glass, though the sun at dusk the night before had been blood red, bathing the trolls beneath the Overlook cliffs in its foreboding light.
Rasek sat at the edge of the dock with a cigarette between his fingers, staring out at the horizon, at nothing, at the pattern of gulls that dipped in and out of the surf, completely unaware of him. He looked older than he ever had. Crowās feet pulled at the corners of his eyes with bags beneath them; disheveled grey hair and a scruffy beard to match. He was not yet even thirty.
Heād been expecting it for some time. Years ago, when that self-proclaimed king from some long forgotten human house drove his men to the village like a wave against a wall. Revenge for something the warband had done. Rasek forgot. His father had taken a spear to the leg.
Times Were Tough All Over
Times were tough all over. Half the able population was off in the Broken Isles fighting demons and ghosts and the boogeymen of their childhood or whatever, leaving those less combat-inclined to struggle back home. Who was left to buy the bread and no one left to make it? Who but the old and infirmed and too young to join up had the extra coin to spend on clothes and perfume and curtains and fancy⦠wigs? Or whatever. Nobody, thatās who. And that made trade tough, and the lives of those involved in it tougher. They could hardly be blamed for coming up short sometimes. Honestly, it wasnāt even fair to collect a debt right now. Cruel. Inhumane. Anyone who did it was probably in leagues with the Old Gods. Money-grabbing necromancers working under the motto āWe live to raise the debtā. That sort of thing.
Thatās what Rasek told himself at the end of every month when he went through his ledgers. When he wasnāt trying to trick his brain into feeling sorry for the rest of him, he was halfway thrilled to discover he was only a few grand behind in payments. Like ten. Ten grand behind. Not so bad when you consider what heād borrowed to make it that way.
The Dream King
He couldnāt remember the beginning. Sure, they joked about it still, Juzmik dangling the past over him like a prize. They shared her, but how much he couldnāt be certain. Her smile? Her touch? She had a first husband she hardly spoke about, and a home in the snow she never returned to. How many others had she told? Who else had ever seen? Was he special?
The hollow pit that sucked at his chest ached when he thought of her. At first it hurt all the time, crushed beneath the weight of carrying on alone, but he got used to it. Jagged edges grew dull, and he learned to keep going. But the blade was there, carving him out bit by bit. He dug his nails into his skin on the days in hurt more, and closed his eyes, and took deep breaths until it left him alone again.
He must have been special. The child sleeping behind him was proof of that. He had her dark hair and thick lashes, her stubborn streak, her pout. He was every bit her motherās son, not at all like his father except for the thin layer of moss that clung to his skin and set him apart from other trolls his age.